It Gets Better

I just watched a video Cesar Milan made for the It Gets Better project.  I so related to a lot of what he expressed in his video. But I have not become a media super star, have not become someone who can easily share information that might be shocking to some people. So mostly I just think to myself.
  I was bullied miserably from about 3rd grade on, that I can actually remember. Most of it came from one main reason- that I lived on a farm in a time and place where farm kids were not the norm and that I smelled like a farm when I went to school.  For the longest time, throughout my childhood and adolescence I simply thought that getting ridiculed for smelling like the farm was one more lie they told about me.  It was only later, when I returned to the farm after having been gone for a while, that I realized that my clothes really did smell bad.  It was a mixture of scents that filled my house; manure, urine and wood smoke. These smells combined for a scent that wouldn't quit.
  I remember a time with my mom when she got so hurt by her father because she was attending a funeral of an old family member in newly purchased clothes, and he told her that she smelled like cows. She just couldn't believe or accept that there might be some truth to that, so she internalized it as one more hurtful thing her father said to her.
  During my high school years, I rode the private school bus with students from various private schools in the Capitol District. Those students were particularly loathsome to me, and made every effort to ridicule me on the bus, even resorting to using a little sister to come from behind me and slap my face. Of course if I said anything, I was labeled a bully because after all, she was only in 3rd grade and I in was a high schooler. Even the bus driver was complicit in this, ignoring what they did to me and reprimanding me if I said anything to the little girl. And so it went on and on. I would always sit by myself and often just put my head against the window to pass the time.
  It wasn't until I got to college that bullying really stopped. I was still shy and had difficulty making friends because of my years of being isolated, but no one knew about the farm and I didn't tell them.

To Be of Use

To Be of Use

The people I love the best

jump into work head first

without dallying in the shallows

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,

the black sleek heads of seals

bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,

who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

~Marge Piercey

  This poem was read at my mom's memorial service by one of her granddaughters. I was reminded of it when I went to the Rio Grande Valley live stock show on Monday. I loved seeing the kids with their animals, whether they were feeding them, leading them, washing them or just hanging around them. It reminded me so much of my childhood days spent at the fair, that feeling of being one with your livestock. Its hard to explain the feeling to people who have never owned or shown animals.  The closest chance many kids will get to that is reading Charlotte's Web, especially the part about going to the fair. Its not all about days gone by, because there are kids that still experience the joy of raising an animal and showing it at the fair.

Perhaps you knew Sheila

 My Mom died a month ago. I wrote this the day of her memorial service. The theme kept coming to me every night after she died.  I thought about all the different facets of her life and how, if you weren't part of her immediate family, you probably wouldn't understand all of her many parts.  Even if you were part of her family, it was easy to forget that she had all these different sides of her that didn't necessarily go together and yet they did. 

My daughter Sarah read the tribute at my mom's memorial service. I wanted to do it, but I didn't think I could get through it.  It was really nice to have her speak anyway; to hear the strength of her voice and to know that she was there. 

Mom was quirky. Mom was an enigma. Mom was eccentric in her own special way, although she didn't fit most people's definition of eccentric. I'll be thinking about Mom for the rest of my life.

Perhaps you knew Sheila- A tribute to our Mom, Granny

Perhaps you knew Sheila as a graduate of The Chapin School, Harvard University and Russell Sage College.These were the educational institutions that shaped her thinking and inspired her love of anthropology and education.

Perhaps you knew Sheila as a teacher. She taught 2nd and 4th grade at Waterford-Halfmoon Elementary for 31 years. Her love of education and her love of children merged there and she taught and inspired many children to love reading and writing. She was immensely proud of the many students who came to her, telling stories of how she had influenced the paths they had taken.

Perhaps you knew Sheila as a member of Grace Episcopal Church, as a person of faith. Sheila's faith was not easily defined for she found God in relationships with people and animals. She found joy in a newborn grandchild, peace in a lamb that had recovered from the effects of cold  weather and hope in waiting for the arrival of grandchildren adopted from Korea, Haiti and Honduras.

Perhaps you knew Sheila as a farmer. Her love of the land and farm animals took her far from the path of her own siblings. Sheila was a person who marched to the beat of her own drummer. When she decided to leave Troy and buy a farm in Melrose with Anthony, there would be no dissuading her from purchasing cattle, sheep and goats so that all five of her children could be involved in the farm. Hayfield's farm would be no gentleman's farm, but rather a full blown family farm with a herd of milking cattle, dairy goats and over 600 sheep at its peak. Every child had their own breed of cattle and sheep and all were involved in 4-H throughout their childhoods.

Perhaps you knew Sheila as a world traveler. She began traveling with her own father when he was in his 80's and continued traveling the world with organizations which would allow her to be a participant in the lives of the people she visited. She fought for human rights through Witness for Peace, helped educate teachers and  students through Global Volunteers and worked with underprivileged people throughout the world with Elderhostel programs.

Perhaps you knew Sheila in the final years of her life. Her strength of character and determination to be independent allowed her to rebound from a brain injury in 2004 caused by a fall on ice. She returned to her farm after some time in rehab and resumed her life on the farm, with assistance from her children . After a fall and broken hip in August 2009, she could not return to her beloved farm and resided in the Eddy Village Green until her death. The nurses and caretakers there continued to enjoy her stories of children and travel and the farm for the duration of her life there.

Sheila was a caring, giving person who loved learning and sharing anything she could with those who needed it most. We will miss her and and will forever remember the beauty she brought to our lives.

Sheila Forster Morris
May 9, 1928-December 16th, 2011